


I Was Too Weak To Come Close

by plasticpumpkins



Category: Chronicle (2012)
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Breaking and Entering, Gen, Hallucinations, Love, Memory Loss, Pain, Self-Hatred, Sobbing, first-person perspective, mention of past character death, obstruction of main plot, self harm (minor)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8052490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plasticpumpkins/pseuds/plasticpumpkins
Summary: Andrew Detmer didn't die that day, but something within him did. He doesn't realize that he's looking for what he left behind. If he can't find his past, then it will definitely find him.





	I Was Too Weak To Come Close

**Author's Note:**

> This was over-hyped slightly to my friends, but here, take this garbage; don't go alone. This wasn't edited, due to my sickness, but I hope it's not too ...gunky or anything? 
> 
> Title taken from Soko's 'I've Been Alone Too Long'

Az Országház, Budapest, 2014.

I was lost in vast, empty hallways. I was merely a vessel of energy beneath the catered ceilings, so small and so useless, making use of protected spaces by roaming in places I did not belong. I had left everything in Seattle, including my past self and everything I knew. I was currently set on making new memories, but I hadn’t spoken to anyone in months and nothing seemed to register in my head. I told myself that by entering landmarks, I was leaving impressions of myself on the world. 

But I entered invalidly, I slipped in through the open windows and planted myself in rooms that were restricted to the public. There were rules to be implemented, but I ignored them. I figured I had broken enough already to evade them all together. I’ve sinned enough to falter in the eye’s of God himself, but what I’ve done, however, never crossed my mind. I can only remember the aftermath of the affliction, the damage that had been done moments after the crime occurred. 

I walked the corridors of hidden spaces; I was without a destination, without a home. The loneliness was a subtle rumble in the pit of my starving body, running its nails down the walls of my stomach and wailing to be freed. I had spent months trying to convince myself that isolation was acceptable, but I had gotten used to company years ago, I knew the taste of comfort and I continued to yearn for it despite my best efforts not to. At the end of the day, I was still human. It was a painful downfall. 

The power within me refused to swallow my emotions. It stuck to my ribs, sticky and itchy, encouraging me to run, run, run; but the feelings in my head, those apparent in my heart, continued to throb until I doubled over, sickened and enraged with my own existence. There were not enough landmarks on the earth to distract me from his absence, but I continued to walk, to fly, to roam.

I had learned that nothing was constant, but found myself never evolving, and so I’ve come to the conclusion that I wasn’t anything to begin with. I’m comparable to old batteries, an alarm clock that is unable to ring, a car radio that doesn’t know any stations. I am an empty soul, a broken human being. But then, like all contradictions, I am not. The part of me that craves, that weeps, for him does not know the part of me that pushed him away, that destroyed him, that caused a young man to concave. 

The hall was wide and filled with airy silence. If I were to scream, my sorrow would echo off the walls until the sound was devoured once more by the quiet. I wouldn’t scream. I wouldn’t cry. But I would think about it, I would allow myself to revel in the chance of being caught because my voice disrupted the silence. I would be sought after then, they would chase me down, only for my body to slip from their grasps, propelled by a force unknown to them and in some way, unknown to me.

Towards the end of the corridor, there were two boys. They were almost transparent against the cashmere ash of the walls enclosing us in, I couldn’t help but pause momentarily, watching curiously. I drew myself up, feet lifting off the ground, worried to be seen as they spoke softly amongst themselves. 

One of them mentioned nihilism, and the other rolled his eyes, shoulders going slack. The scene seemed to click into place seconds too late. I recalled white and green varsity jackets and secondhand highs. They lit up, caught in a surmounting halo of light and deception, and then, three blinks later, they were gone. Something welled up in my chest, violent and searching. I left Budapest that day.

\---   
Cerralbo Museum, Madrid, 2014. 

It was after dark when I slipped into an old office, one that had wooden bookcases lining its walls and an intricate-looking desk centered in the middle of it all. The books that were behind freshly cleaned glass seemed new, still in perfect shape and color. My fingers itched to touch the latch that protected them from hands alike my own, but I did not move. I glanced around the room, noting gold light fixtures, padded chairs, and small trinkets left to collect dust on the desk. It was too much for me. 

There was a sharp letter opener sitting atop a shelf, and I reached for it, despite the nagging in my brain that told me I was obstructing history. It was so small and so harmless, it hadn’t met the top of a letter in decades, no doubt, but I ran the sharpness across my fingertips, testing the blade, and watched as the skin split open and blood bubbled to the surface. I gasped, startled by the razor-sharpness, and dropped it to the floor. Annoyance rang, but I leaned down and retrieved it despite the feeling. 

When I stood, sitting the opener back in its rightful place, I looked up to find a startling sight. My left hand wrapped around my right, halting the blood that threatened to drip on the flooring. There was a boy there, pulling open one of the three cabinets and reaching for a single red book. He was in a wind-breaker jacket, dripping wet. His brown skin was illuminated by the moonlight filtering in from the window, and the strong profile of his jaw reminded me of something I couldn’t quite remember. 

An unruly panic broke out like a cold sweat, dragging me backwards and farther away from his broad form. I knew he had to have seen me here, illegally roaming around a place in which I did not belong, but he hadn’t bothered to look over. I wondered if he was teasing me, waiting to see if I would break the silence just to turn myself in. I couldn’t believe I still feared the law when I could easily escape it. The book he held was opened gently, he had calloused hands, but he was so delicate. I shivered. 

I recalled heavy rain and the vomit-inducing feel of anxiety. I took another step backwards, bumping into the window frame, only to watch him dissipate into mid-air. I began to shake, a forgotten feeling swallowing the whole of my being. The cabinet was closed, just as I had found it. He was gone.   
\---  
The Scottish National Gallery, Edinburgh, 2014. 

I arrived just before the sun rose, face flustered with the cold night air and body tingling from a lack of sleep. The columned building was massive, one of the prettiest sights that I had ever seen, but there wasn’t enough time to linger. There was one piece of art I was after, it was something I recalled a friend of mine telling me about years before this day.

I wasn’t one for paintings, but I remembered his interest well enough. Something about the memory called to me, so I continued inside, driven by someone without a name or a voice in my mind. I remembered the disconcerting taste of marijuana and crushed soda cans on the dashboard of his car, but nothing about him; I think somewhere along the way, I pushed him from my mind. 

I passed marble statues, various works of art, and informational guides. It was so quiet that I worried my head would create sound on its own, just to fill up the silence that I couldn’t stand to endure. I had been alone for so long, caught somewhere between reality and death. I was lucky to experience background noise, though I remained above, hovering atop society as if I were nothing more than a neutral perspective of view. I wasn’t a single personality, I was all of them. And then I was nothing. 

I could see the painting adorning the walls of one red room. I was walking slowly, cautiously, still holding onto my fear of the darkness. Before I could reach the empty space in front of it, it was being filled with another body. The boy had his back to me, but I stuttered and stopped in my tracks. My breath caught in my throat, and something unknown crawled up my spine. I couldn’t see his features, but the feeling of him - complicated and drowsy - clouded me. 

I wanted to remember, but I couldn’t. It was on the of scape of my mind, on the tip of my tongue. The boy was muttering to himself about the artwork, but his words were jumbled and lost. I realized they weren’t for me to hear in the first place. He was on fire within the darkened room, his body glowing, shaking. Without warning, he vanished and left me alone in the vacancy of morning. I refused to question my sanity as I approached the space he recently occupied, hoping for something. 

I found nothing. I glared up at the painting; it was by Titian, someone whom I had never heard of before this day. It was entitled, ‘Venus Anadyomene’ and was merely a nude woman wringing the water from her hair. It brought no memory to my mind, no recognition. It was just another painting on the wall, no different than the ones I had passed by before. I noted that I wasn’t looking for what the boy loved, only the boy himself. In other words, art doesn’t bring back memories if you’re not the artist. 

\---  
Oslo, Norway, 2014. 

I chugged white wine, caught in some back way alley, encompassed in self-loathing and pain. My memories were nothing more than smells, colors, vacant words. The only human being I could recall knowing was my father, who left me with an addiction to things I couldn’t afford. I chugged stolen alcohol, it was disgusting and bitter but I swallowed it back until my vision blurred. I blamed him for vomiting on the curb and washing my mouth out with my own trigger. 

Vendors on the street eyed me, noting my loose clothes and the blood dripping from my nose. I looked like a threat, and I was, but I didn’t feel it. I felt weak, used, broken. I licked the blood dripping from my nose off my lip, staring down those who dared look in my direction. I was still a child, but this time, I had ammunition. I had guns for hands and a mouth that wrapped around the violence, sucking it down, learning that it’s easier to give in than to give up. 

‘’Your jacket isn’t buttoned up all the way,’’ a voice said distantly, and I turned to find the two boys from Budapest together, seemingly unnoticed by those who glared after me. 

I watched the taller boy in his bright Football jersey reach for the other boy’s coat, doing up the last two buttons. I squinted at them and their wild attire, almost angry, almost upset. I knew it wasn’t real when the boy in the rain coat laughed, it echoed loudly through the streets, but the civilians didn’t bother to turn. They were figments of my imagination, haunting me like ghosts from a life I didn’t have the luxury to remember.

‘’Maybe I like two buttons undone,’’ the boy said, earning a breathtaking grin from the other. 

I frowned, the bottle fell from my hand, and it shattered against the hard ground. The scene melted away, a watercolor scene of remembrance. I recalled football fields and strawberry milkshakes. My heart was pounding in my chest, rapid and erratic. The people around me stared at me freely, noting the broken bottle beside me and the tears in my eyes, no doubt. I leapt upwards, flying off, leaving them alone with the edges of my past and glass. I forgot how to breathe, but never stopped. 

\--- 

Tibet, Roof of The World, 2015. 

I couldn’t retain warmth. I was trembling, and it refused to stop snowing. This was the last place on my trip, though it was very far away from where I was recently traveling. People don’t often leave Europe for China, though this location lingered in my mind, but I couldn’t remember why.   
As I stood, feet sinking in the snow, I took in the view. It was white and bright and beautiful. It was a conclusion, however unsatisfying. I took a deep breath and reveled in the loneliness in a place filled to the brim with sights to be seen. Moments passed uneventfully. 

That was, until someone landed beside me. I turned to look at him, the boy in the badly buttoned coat, and found him staring back at me. I realized this was the first time he had ever looked at me. In my memories, they never addressed me; I was a stranger in my own dreams. Anger welled up within me, red hot and icy simultaneously, and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to disperse the scene myself. 

I charged towards him, and his eyes widened, I waited for him to disappear. I was barreling towards him now, closing the distance between him and I, and waited to pass him in transparency to collapse in the dirt and snow. But that didn’t happen, I merely crashed into him, body solid and warm as he tumbled backwards with me on top of him, flailing in surprise. Confusion met me before he did. 

‘’Andrew?!’’ he gasped, and I watched him dissolve beneath me, but this time, it was into tears. He was frantic as he pushed me off of him, turning us over, climbing atop of me. It was as if he were afraid I would disappear, like I would turn to smoke and leave him alone. ‘’I thought - I thought you - what? What? I thought you were dead, I thought you were dead,’’ he said, sobbing pathetically. 

Then, all at once, it clicked. 

I pulled him down onto me, his face burrowed in my neck, breath hot and wet as he cried. I wrapped my arms around him, desperately trying to keep him in place. ‘’Matt,’’ I breathed, voice shaky from disuse. I dug my fingers into his back through his coat, tears streaming down the sides of my face. The snow was soaking my back, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. 

He was real. He was the boy from Budapest, he was the boy from my memories. He was Matt Garetty. Marijuana smoking, philosophy spewing Matt Garetty who picked me up every morning for school. He was always wearing too many layers, always talking too much. I breathed him in. 

‘’I thought you died,’’ he repeated, his breathing evening out. ‘’I thought I killed you.’’ 

I recalled the event and relived my own downfall. I remembered the death Steve Montgomery, the only boy who could make my heart beat out of my chest. I thought of his brown skin and his contagious laugh only to let my head fall back against the snow, unable to accept that he had a grave and I practically dug it for him. ‘’You didn’t,’’ I told him, disgusted with the sound of my own voice. 

I thought of the spear that had ripped a hole through my chest. I thought of Matt’s desperate attempt to stop me from hurting myself, from hurting everyone else, from hurting him. I let him down. I was very good at destroying what I loved, I realized. It might be my only talent. But Matt was alive. 

He was breathing, sobbing, trying to get as close as he could without hurting me. I was only guilt in that moment, sure that I wasn’t who he was looking for. ‘’I didn’t,’’ he said, giving some of my words back to me. ‘’You’re alive,’’ he cried, as if I were a miracle to life itself. It was a funny thought, but I couldn’t laugh, I couldn’t process it. ‘’I’m so sorry, ‘Drew, I’m so fucking sorry.’’ 

I began to shake, silent, unable to form words. I had been alone too long. I couldn’t remember how to do this. I couldn’t remember how to feel. I hugged him closer, and it seemed to translate for him. He pulled himself from me, looking at me fully now. ‘’Your hair is longer,’’ he said, smiling, wiping his tears. ‘’You’re taller, I think.’’ 

I watched him carefully, noting that he had changed, too. He didn’t look like a child anymore. He looked older and tired, I felt I was to blame. ‘’People grow,’’ I forced out, trying to keep the tears from flowing again. I felt we were different people now, still stuck in the past, but moving with a future of older people who didn’t bother meddling in the past. 

‘’If Steve could see you, he’d lose his shit,’’ Matt told me, his eyes filled with regret and love and pain. I had never felt more criminalized and adored. In some way, they were the same. ‘’He loved you so much, Andrew, he loved you so much. He couldn’t shut up about you.’’ 

I wanted to tell Matt that this was unnecessary, that I knew. But didn’t have the heart to do so. I couldn’t tell him that his words were ripping holes in my resolve, in my jacket. I had killed a boy who embodied faith, which left me with none at all - not even the memory of hope. I laughed shakily, ‘’He loved you more,’’ and it was almost true, almost concrete. We shared the same memory of Steve Montgomery, and it was the only thing that brought us warmth under the fall of snow. 

‘’I missed you like hell,’’ he whispered, like it was too dire for the empty space around us to hear. 

The tears stung as they fell, ‘’I missed you so much, I couldn’t even remember your name.’’ 

Matt sniffled, eyes watery, ‘’Lucky you.’’


End file.
